


These Broken Pieces Fit Together

by TheHatterTheory



Series: Hagalaz [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Companion Piece, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV Alternating, Sibling Bonding, dealing with the fallout, not all of them are pleasant, scott mccall learns things, somewhere in all of this there will be a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1384690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHatterTheory/pseuds/TheHatterTheory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Decisions are made. So are mistakes.</p><p>Codas for Buckets For Bailing Out the Flood</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Broken Pieces Fit Together

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, sorry this took so long to get up. I hope this covers all of the requests from BFBOtF comments!
> 
> As for the ordering snafu where BFBOtF was listed as part five for awhile, my drafts were ordered incorrectly. All fixed. 
> 
> A note about the Isaac/Issac thing. I actually had a complete blind moment several times? I've always read Isaac as Issac. My brain. At some point (probably when this whole shebang is finished) I'll go through and fix that. Until then, Issac it is. 
> 
> Last of all, I do not own Teen Wolf. I'm just playing around in the fandom because wangst.

There was fire in his bones, blossoming out and filling all of the hollows. Small eternities passed where he breathed out nothing but ash, tasted nothing but the rancid flavor of kin-blood on his tongue. The world filtered through in broken pieces of scents and sounds, colors too sharply defined in their shapes, hurting his eyes.

Darkness supported him and kept him suspended, caught between one moment of falling and the next. The scent of Stiles' blood lingered on his fingertips, a static buzz puddling in his palms.

* * *

Cassie curled tightly into herself, tried to keep everything in even as her seams split open. She could feel people moving around her, talking in whispers about Stiles and Derek. Words struck against her skin and burrowed beneath the flesh, eating at her precarious control.

Stiles' faint heartbeat was the only thing keeping her together in every sense of the word.

"They're going to be okay," Lydia repeated for the third time.

"It's been four days." Four days of indeterminable silence and clinging to the waking world, afraid if she slept Stiles' heart would choose to stop beating. Four days of sitting, trying to turn all of the panic and fear inwards.

"He's still there. I can hear something."

"Just not _him_." It was an unfair accusation, but all she could muster in the face of such weak reassurance.

"At least there's something there now," Lydia hissed. Cassie couldn't find it in her to be empathetic, not when her emotions were already running wild, taking every possible scenario and shoving them in her face, amplified by panic.

Stiles might never wake up. Without Stiles, Derek might never come back, lost in his head and out of reach. Her two best friends, taken from her in one fell swoop. Worst of all, she could only sit and hope. Waiting had never been and would probably never be her forte, and the varied noises of the hospital made her itch uncomfortably as they interfered with listening to Stiles' heartbeat.

Her mother's phone rang for the umpteenth time that day. The entire pack seemed to be calling to find out what had happened to Stiles, to reassure themselves that the world hadn't ended while they'd been elsewhere, to hear their alpha's voice.

Their alpha.

Cassie looked down at her hands, claws digging into her palms. There was no question about it, really. She'd chosen before, when the world had been uncertain. Nothing had come of that choice then, because there had been no need. But Stiles was in a coma, and Derek was broken. Her choice would always be them, but how could she choose them when neither was aware of it.

She'd blame them for it, if they hadn't already suffered so much. As it was, she still felt lost, having walked into the closing act of some drama played out years before she'd known either. It was easy to redirect her anger at the ones that knew the whole of it, understood but couldn't explain.

"Cassie," Her mother's voice broke through her reverie, the voice scraping against her psyche. Touch had already proven to be a bad idea, and no one had tried after the first time.

"What?" She ground out.

"Your father is outside with Matthias."

Matthias. He barely seemed important anymore. She'd completely forgotten than he was coming.

"It would be best if he saw you before everyone else."

Cassie opened her mouth to say she didn't care what was best for Matthias, that she wasn't going to go so far, not when Stiles' heartbeat was still so faint.

"Cassie, you need to go prepare him. It's unfair to ask him to come up here without understanding."

She didn't care about fair either, but her mother's voice was firm. Even when she'd been her mother's beta, disobedience had come easily. Now that Derek was an alpha, there was almost no compulsion at all to listen to her. But her mother was right. Matthias deserved to know what he was walking into.

"Okay." It was begrudging at best, but it was the best she could manage. Her mother didn't try to touch her as she stood, didn't offer a hand like she would have before. Cassie strode out of the little waiting room she'd camped out in.

Hospitals were awful places, but the elevators were empty, a place to be alone. Safe, by any standards. She felt it dropping down, the hum and whir of machinery making it more difficult to hear Stiles. By the time she reached the first floor, his heartbeat had completely disappeared, setting her teeth on edge.

Still alive. Still alive. Still alive.

Her dad didn't attempt to hug her as he walked past, back into the building. Matthias stood on the sidewalk, completely out of place. He opened his arms, a silent offer.

She walked forward, allowed him an embrace she didn't return. A small, selfish part of her hoped he could keep her tethered to the present before she became as lost as Derek.

* * *

"Stiles is okay."

Derek stared at John, not quite understanding the noises the man was making. Everything hurt, the taste of blood in his mouth still too strong, but not strong enough to cover the scent of Stiles' blood crusting his clothes, blending with the scent of sweat.

"Derek, Stiles woke up. He's okay. He's alive."

The sheriff repeated the words over and over. At first the darkness tried to swallow the syllables, muffle and drown them. But John continued talking, saying the same words over and over until even the darkness couldn't keep up, fit to burst with words.

"Stiles is okay."

It was the first sentence that made sense, the first words that weren't stolen away from him.

Stiles was okay.

"Derek, Stiles woke up. He's okay," John repeated slowly, patiently.

Derek blinked, looked around. Awareness returned, the too defined lines settling, the scents dialing down, pulling back. Even the taste in his mouth seemed to dull. He opened it, felt air come out when he tried to speak. His throat hurt, sounds getting caught like glass and rocks.

"You okay son?"

Derek blinked again, nodded even though he wasn't entirely sure he was alright. John reached across the line of mountain ash, a bottle of water held in offering. Derek accepted it, clumsily opened it before tipping the bottle back. The cold wet chill reminded him what physical sensations were, needles pricking inside before vanishing. The sound of his stomach, empty and cramping, echoed in the room. When he'd finished, he recapped the bottle. John was watching him with something that could be called worry.

"Stiles?" He asked, finally managing the name.

"He's woken up. How are you feeling?"

Too alive, energy racing through veins and arteries like he was nothing but a livewire. Like his skin was a suit poorly seamed onto him, threatening to unravel. And yet tired, exhausted. Pulled thin and taut, a string vibrating from it's own tension.

"I'll live."

"And what do you-Do you remember anything?"

Derek shook his head, although John didn't need to ask. He knew, had known, the moment he'd woken up in a circle of mountain ash. Even if he didn't remember how it had happened, it had. Peter was dead, the power of an alpha only making the fire cradled in his bones that much stronger. Peter's voice and Boyd's tangled up in his own. And Stiles' blood on him, Stiles not there.

"Did everyone make it out okay?"

"Aside from Peter, pretty much," John said, sitting on a chair. Derek took a moment to look around them and realized he was in Deaton's basement. And if that wasn't the last place he wanted to be.

"Stiles was unconscious for awhile, but he's woken up. Now he's sleeping normally."

Derek took a moment to savor the words, the knowledge that Stiles was alive. He hadn't been taken by Beacon Hills, hadn't been taken from him.

"Okay, here's what's going to happen. I've got your duffel in my cruiser. I'm going to break this line, and you're going to shower. Then we're going to get some food into you. And then you can go visit Stiles. Sound good?"

As much as he wanted to go now, to reassure himself that John wasn't lying (and even if he could tell a lie from a heartbeat, he knew John would never, ever lie to him about Stiles, but still) Derek was aware of how he smelled, how he must look. There was no way he could go to a hospital, especially not into Stiles' room when he was a walking petri dish.

"Okay."

John used his foot to break the line of ash before holding out his hand. Derek took it, was careful of how he moved. Muscles felt ready to spring, to clench or unwind in a ribbon of motion. His body had acclimated to the new power, but his mind hadn't caught up. John's hand was warm, rough in his. Similar to Stiles', calluses like sandpaper from everyday life, from guns, from living. Warm, human. Derek savored the sensation before getting to his feet and stepping out of the circle for the first time in an eternity.

"How long?"

"It's January first."

So it had been an eternity, lost in that darkness.

"Happy new year." Another Christmas ruined by Beacon Hills.

"Let's just say we're visiting you guys next year."

Derek didn't want to think about the future, knew that things had to be done, plans had to be made.

Things would change.

Where would they be in a year?

He shook those thoughts off, followed John upstairs onto the first floor of the house. Deaton was waiting for them, quiet, benign smile in place. Derek idly imagined him falling into a never ending black hole. Deaton's smile didn't shift.

"The bathroom is upstairs, first door on the left. There are towels already there," The vet offered.

"Go take care of yourself," John said, clapping a hand on his shoulder and squeezing before turning away, heading for the front door. Derek ignored Deaton, didn't bother to thank him (it was difficult to be thankful) and walked upstairs.

Pointedly ignoring the mirror, he stripped down out of his clothes, ignored the crusty filth and detritus clinging to him. Something caught his shirt, and when he tugged at the chain, he remembered the ring that had replaced his pendant. There was still a faint taste of magic to it, barely detectable even to his enhanced senses. Ozone and blood, Stiles and him bound around it. Resisting the urge to palm it, roll it between his fingers, he let it drop back against his chest and finished shucking off clothing worn too long.

What had occurred between then and now didn't bear thinking on, so he didn't. He stepped into the shower and turned the knobs, flinched against the cold water blasting down on him. Cleaning was perfunctory, automatic. Nothing registered, not really. His mind circled the thought over and over.

Stiles was okay.

It felt like breathing again. Everything else could stand still and _wait_. They'd all survived, more or less intact. (Maybe less for the more of it.)

Sometime in between the first and second shampoo the door opened and something hit the floor before it closed again. John's scent wafted in, Stiles' scent and medicine lingered beneath it, noticeable now that the Stiles-blood scent was gone.

After scrubbing down twice, he ignored the temptation to remain under the water and relax. Getting out and drying off was a blur of actions, moments bleeding into moments he barely took notice of, getting dressed notable only because Stiles' shirt was the one he pulled on, a plain black one he'd probably mistaken for his own when he'd packed.

His hair was still damp when he shoved his feet into his shoes and slung the duffel over his shoulder. More than anything, he was ready to get the hell out of Deaton's house.

John looked him over with a critical eye. Derek felt an eyebrow arch, pure reflex to anyone looking at him like he needed to pass a test. John actually smirked and nodded, as if the reaction had been some unknown signal between them.

Maybe it had. Things felt different now, as if definitions had changed while he'd been out of his mind.

Derek wondered what it said about him that his reflex was to reach for the back door of the cruiser parked on the street. John gave him a look and opened the trunk instead. Wolfsbane bit his nose when he dropped the bag in, poorly concealed under a false bottom. John noticed him glaring at the trunk bed and shook his head.

"Seems best to be prepared," He offered, no apology in the words. Simple truth.

Derek couldn't wait to get the hell out of Beacon Hills.

"I'm actually about sick of fast food," John admitted, sliding into the front seat of the cruiser. Derek got in, ignored the grill right behind his head and stared resolutely forward. "But I have a feeling if I try to keep you from Stiles for much longer, you'll just run all the way to the hospital."

"You're probably right," Derek found himself agreeing. At this point he was sure anything would taste good.

"So a burger?"

"Whatever's fine."

John remained silent for the drive, only speaking into the radio when a minor accident was reported. Derek appreciated it, whether it was because John didn't know what to say or was allowing him time to acclimate to the world, brighter and sharper than he remembered it being. Every sense felt fine tuned, better than when he'd gone under, maybe even better than the first time he'd been an alpha.

When he accepted the bag of fries and a greasy hamburger, his stomach roiled. Hunger or nausea, it was difficult to tell. The food tasted like ash in his mouth anyway, washed down with watered down soda.

It wasn't until they were pulling up to the hospital that John spoke directly to him again.

"He looks like crap." It wasn't a reassuring opening statement. "But he's okay. He just needs to take it easy for awhile."

Derek was all for that, nodded his agreement and was out of the car before John had stopped moving, the door slamming behind him and John's muttered 'kids' perfectly clear.

Despite a cacophony of scents, he was able to pick out Stiles', was able to follow it through the hospital to the second floor. Unfortunately, it felt like half of Beacon Hills and Portland was waiting for him, a minefield of people and potential words between him and Stiles' hospital room.

"Hey, there's another way around," Melissa said, making his entire body twitch in response, an instinct cut off as it started. He turned, saw her staring at him expectantly. She tilted her head and offered him another smile before starting to walk, obviously expecting him to follow her. And he did, because he didn't, couldn't, deal with what was waiting in the little niche of a waiting room.

Cassie and Matthias were in the room when he stepped in, Matthias only recognizable from few dozen pictures from their trip. Cassie made a relieved, whimpering sound that hit him square in the chest. Coupled with her haggard appearance, he wanted to wrap her up, take her and Stiles and hide them from everything.

Except everything had already passed, hadn't it? He'd forgotten how _after_ was always the hardest part.

She was in his arms, nonsense sounds that didn't mean anything humming against his chest. Matthias seemed to take it as a wordless signal to leave, which was smart. Derek watched the wolf move cautiously, as if he understood that he was walking on an infinitely fine line, couldn't help but feel wary for all of Matthias' care. Unknown. Stranger. Matthias' scent all over the room and Cassie didn't help, not when he didn't recognize it.

The door closed with a quiet click and he ran a hand over the messy braid Cassie's hair had been pulled into.

"I thought I was going to go crazy," She admitted, voice wet with tears and relief. "God I was so scared."

As much as he wanted to say 'it's okay', he didn't. The world had changed too much for it to be okay, maybe ever again. It took a herculean effort to actually look at the bed, his arms tightening around Cassie when his gaze finally rested on Stiles.

Tubes ran in and out of him, a sterile, eerie mockery of roots spreading out to various machines. Revulsion made his entire being recoil, the need to pull Stiles free of the bed and machines, away from the sharp lines and white plastics, the constant humming making his body vibrate with tension.

"Derek," Cassie whimpered. When he looked down at her, she was staring up at him, eyes beta gold, head tilted in offering. The world rushed back, crashed down, refused to be ignored. A whole future laid itself out, implied in the single gesture of submission.

His arms dropped to his sides and he stepped back, biting back the instinctual response. _Mine_. The voice in his head was so sure, whispered with all the conviction that he'd lacked the first time. It was darkly thrilling, the notion of having a beta again. Thrilling and utterly terrifying.

Goddamnit. He'd hoped for a few more days, at least a few minutes before being forced to face _that_ particular change.

"Can I get a few minutes?" His voice was choked, no wonder why. Cassie nodded, looked the slightest bit confused as she stepped back, then walked around him, arm brushing his. It wasn't subtle, but the offer was bracing. She was still willing to touch him even though he'd killed, had probably seen him still covered in blood. It wouldn't be the first time someone had pulled away from him because of it, probably wouldn't be the last.

The door opened and closed, and he was left alone with Stiles.

Circling the bed, he claimed the chair Cassie had been sitting in, could still smell Rick and John, Scott and Caroline's scents mixing with Cassie's, seeping into his own clothing. The room positively reeked of other people, some strange and other familiar. Still another impulse to get in the bed, cover Stiles in his scent, to make him smell less like Other and more like pack.

Like his.

Stiles' hand was warm, the pulse in his wrist steady and strong. Bruises still lingered, traces of shapes beneath his skin testament to what felt like a nightmare. The IV tube and the wires monitoring his vitals elicited another shudder before he focused on Stiles' face, relaxed in sleep.

Alive. Safe. Alive.

For all that Beacon Hills had stolen this time, at least it hadn't taken him. Derek didn't know if it was a break in the pattern or if the town was satisfied with what it had. Maybe they'd just been lucky. He'd been lucky.

Now if only Stiles would open his eyes.

An eternity came and went, his gaze still zeroed in on Stiles when the door opened. The presence of an alpha demanded his attention, made him tense even though it was only Caroline. Still, his instincts were going off, made him want to get between her and Stiles, unconscious, defenseless. When he looked up at her, her eyes were red, mirrors to his own.

Wisely, he thought, she chose to sit in the far corner of the room.

"It's good to have you back, Derek." A peace offering. He nodded slowly, unsure of what to say. He'd never been taught the proper etiquette, how to react to the person that had once been your alpha, especially when you still cared about them.

"Rick says he's back, he just needs rest."

"Back?" Where the hell had he been, if not in a hospital?

"We thought he'd gotten pulled into the currents, when he broke his connection to the nemeton."

Derek tried to breathe, forgot how until Caroline made a quiet, comforting noise. Even though she didn't touch him, probably didn't dare, the sound itself pulled him back, was an almost physical sensation grounding him in reality.

"He's alive, Derek, and in his own skin. He broke his connections to the nemeton and the vé."

Jesus. He rubbed his face, ran clawed fingers through his hair trying not to imagine Stiles getting pulled into one place or another, or both, his body left behind. A hollow shell, nothing left except a body to mourn.

"I know that it's not ideal to have this discussion now, but circumstances unfortunately dictate otherwise," She began again. Derek looked back up at her, saw the serious set of her jaw, the regret in her features. "Cassie's already offered herself, hasn't she?"

Derek wanted to lie, to say no, but he doubted he could muster enough energy to lie convincingly. Instead he looked back down at Stiles, hoped for a reprieve.

"They'll both choose you," Caroline added a moment later. Apparently she wasn't going to give him time to adjust. She'd been awake and aware for the duration, had probably been making plans from the moment she'd known.

"You can't ignore this Derek."

"Why not?" The words were out, the question an angry, tangled blurt that hung suspended in the air.

"You know why." She was being so gentle, so soft. He wanted to hate her for it, wanted to resent it, call it patronizing. Except he knew she was trying, that it was probably costing her to speak about her own daughter choosing someone else as alpha.

"Scott's pack had multiple alphas."

"Scott's pack was small, and from what I gathered, full of children. It wouldn't work with a bigger pack."

It took him a moment to realize that he was gripping Stiles' hand too hard, the sound of discomfort escaping even through the haze of unconsciousness. He relaxed his grip, gently laid Stiles' hand back down on the bed before looking up to meet Caroline's gaze.

"I'm not saying now, Derek. But soon."

It was like they weren't talking about his home, his entire life. Years of stability, of hard work, gone. Worst of all, he couldn't blame her for it. She was an alpha, and she was looking out for her pack. A second alpha would confuse things, would cause too much chaos. He'd become a problem, and she had to deal with it.

"We'll get through this," She promised. "You have us, Derek. No matter what."

He nodded woodenly, didn't say anything. There was nothing to say, nothing constructive at least. Taking out his frustration and anger on her wouldn't accomplish anything; would in fact, do a great deal of harm. When she realized he wasn't going to speak, she got up and left him alone again. Alone with an unconscious Stiles and his own thoughts.

For all that he wanted to hate them, hate everyone for any number of things, he couldn't. Caroline was looking out for her pack, Cassie was looking for reassurance. What he wanted didn't factor into it, couldn't.

Even though he wanted to blame everyone else, he'd been the one to pretend he wasn't as broken as he was. It had been easy, when he'd been nothing but a beta. But now-

He'd pretended before, and it had gotten people killed. How could he hope to accomplish anything differently when he'd become an alpha under the exact same circumstances for a second time? If there had ever been a sign from the universe, a chance to do something right, this was it.

The future that had been implied with Cassie's instinctive, thoughtless gesture of submission fell away, faded into nothing. The new future, the one that would be right for Cassie and Stiles, right for him, took it's place.

Hours passed before he could bring himself to stand up. Every instinct was telling him to sit down, to stay and forget everything he'd plotted out. Except his instincts had failed him before, had failed his family and pack before.

It wasn't at all like the movies. He couldn't chance looking back this time, not when it felt like something was waiting for him. Goodbye, likewise, wasn't allowed, not when half a dozen people could hear it not matter how softly it was spoken.

The same voice that had said 'mine' and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Stiles and Cassie alive slunk low and howled, a vicious reminder that doing the right thing was rarely the thing he wanted. The door handle bent in his hand, another reminder to get used to his own body.

Cassie and Scott were already walking towards him when he closed the door. He gave a perfunctory nod and tried not to flinch when Cassie threw her arms around him.

"You smell like grief," Cassie murmured into his chest.

He had a lot to grieve. "I need some space," He said into her hair, carefully navigating his words. "Just to deal with this."

"He's going to kill you if you're not here when he gets out."

"He'll have to figure out how to forgive me."

Cassie pulled back, gave him a long, searching look before nodding in acceptance. "Love you Starkey."

"Love you too," He whispered, kissing her forehead, the reminder squeezing his heart like a fist, claws digging in to open fresh wounds. Cassie stepped back and Scott held out his hand in offering.

"Thank you."

Words Derek had thought he'd never hear coming from anyone, much less Scott McCall. He shook the other alpha's hand, gave a tight nod before dropping the appendage. Something in him rankled, touching the other alpha. Another of the many things better left unexamined.

"Do you need a ride back to Lydia's?" Scott added, looking torn between helping him and staying for Stiles.

"I can make the walk, get out some energy."

Scott nodded as if he understood, and maybe he did. Scott had been bitten, had Risen. Out of anyone, he probably knew what it was like for his body to be out of sync with his mind, for his mind to be out of sync with the world.

Caroline and Rick both got up, an air of contrition tightening their features. There was no apology for it, no hint that either were willing to take back the words that had ripped his life away from him. Rick stared at the offered hand like it was a foreign thing before pulling him into a hug, a world of words between them, things better left unsaid. When the emissary pulled back, he looked almost grateful, relieved in a way that bespoke years of tension gone. Derek didn't try to parse it, was too busy being pulled into another hug by Caroline.

His instincts roared at him, the normally awkward embrace made all the worse because Caroline was an alpha and more than that, had summarily dismantled his world. Hugging her was difficult, felt fraught with a tension he hadn't felt with her in years. When she stepped back, he could see that she knew it, saw the regret shadowing her expression.

"We'll see you soon," She promised.

He nodded, because if he didn't speak to lie, his heart wouldn't betray him.

* * *

Cas' fingers danced over his chest, nervous. Even if she hadn't been fidgeting for ten minutes, hand moving restlessly over his skin, her scent still gave her away, the worried shadows still lingering in her eyes.

Matthias regarded her evenly, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "You can ask," He murmured softly.

"It's a big thing," She responded in Nynorsk, her accent butchering it almost beyond recognition.

It was a big thing, especially when he only knew Derek Hale in passing, a single moment where he'd been sure the alpha would rip his head off. But-

Stories of the Reconstruction lingered in his mind, his grandfather's voice rough with age. The hierarchies scattered, the Resistance moving huge numbers of people on to Sweden and then bringing them back home, after the occupation had ended and the nazis had fled. Years of working to stabilize packs and territories for all of the races.

Those stories had given him an idea of how difficult it was to be an alpha, and he had never shied away from the responsibility. But he wasn't destined to become an alpha, not according to the láðvǫrðr. No, he was destined to become lost in his father's pack, another beta among many. Caroline's pack would be no different. Even smaller, there were so many already in place, wolves and humans both that wouldn't see him as anything than another wolf marrying in.

But a newly formed scion pack would need help, would need the work and effort. He wouldn't be lost or ignored among a multitude of voices. A small, intimate pack, where everyone counted. He would count. It was the sort of 'big thing' he'd always wanted.

Derek Hale had earned Cas' devotion, that much was plain to see. If he were a lesser person, he would be jealous. But sibling bonds ran deep, and he knew Cas considered Derek her brother. And her alpha.

He'd flown halfway around the world just to see that she was alive. Derek's pack was the kind of pack he wanted to be a part of. Even if he and Derek didn't know one another, Cas did know him. It had to be enough.

"I want to stay."

Cas' palm smoothed over his chest, up his neck to cup his jaw. Relief and joy washed the shadows from her face. For the first time since he'd arrived, she looked relaxed.

"Thank you."

He didn't tell her there had never been a choice, really.

* * *

Rush jobs were never good, couldn't be by their nature. But he wanted to have it done. He was leaving behind too many things that weren't finished, and never would be. It was almost obsessive, the need to leave behind something complete. Even if Stiles was probably going to destroy it. The three dimensional chess set was a novelty, not a work of art. It was something that would amuse Stiles, he hoped.

It would take a few days for it to cure, but Stiles was still recuperating. By the time he got back, the pieces would be completely dry. (Derek imagined it broken and scattered, wondered if Stiles would take the inevitable anger out on it for lack of a better target.)

With infinite care, he began to clean up; threw away stained rags and brushes, made sure the stain cans were tightly sealed and the glue capped. Each compulsive act was a reason to delay, to put off the inevitable. When there was nothing left to do but shut off the power to the workshop and lock up, he allowed himself a moment to look back and memorize everything.

A sanctuary left behind, to be picked apart and parceled out. Miles and the others would probably be happy to buy the equipment off of Stiles, until it was an empty space, a shed or storage area.

Possible futures, none of which he would take part in.

The light shut off, and he closed the door behind him, locking it in easy, practiced movements. It wasn't the first time he'd left behind the accumulated pieces of a life, and it wouldn't be the last.

He jogged through the cold rain up to the house, slipped inside like he was already a trespasser. Which he was, even if everyone he knew, the homeowner himself even, would deny it. He felt like a sneak thief, moving through the dark rooms. Eyes sharper than they had been in years made it easy to navigate the darkness, up to his bedroom where the duffel waited.

It had been discomfiting, how easily he had fallen into packing for a long trip. Muscle memory his instincts had never let him forget. Even now he wished he'd waited, wanted to linger. But with every day that passed, it was possible Stiles would show up and demand to know why he hadn't been there, why he'd fled Beacon Hills the moment he'd seen him. It was the one thing that couldn't happen.

Shouldering the duffel, sense of purpose (or fear) renewed, and opened his nightstand, pulling out the thick yellow envelope with the paperwork in it. On quiet feet, he walked back down the hallway, steadfastly ignored the door to Stiles' room and down the stairs.

It was so stupid, how he paused on the fourth stair down and rocked back and forth, eliciting the familiar squeak. A bent nail because of Stiles' inability to use a nail gun. Sentimental, which he couldn't afford to be. Not if he was going to survive walking away from another life.

Down the next several steps and to the dining room. The manilla envelope slapped the bare wood, echoing in his too sensitive ears. The house was too quiet without Stiles and Cassie making noise in it. Too quiet, and not his home at all.

Knowing what was next didn't make the idea any more palatable. The chain caught under his chin, shorted than he was used to from being knotted around the ring. Stiles had loaned it to him, trusted him with it. Christ, it had been his mother's wedding ring, one of the few things that meant something to him. Which made it all the more difficult for Derek to contemplate leaving behind, the weight already too familiar, too necessary. The loop of gold caught the hint of moonlight through the window, shone silver for a moment. The scent of ozone and Stiles swelled, seemed to fill the room.

Guiltily, he slipped the chain back over his neck. It wasn't a trade, even if a childish part of himself volunteered the idea. Some things were too precious for something so base. Even if he was leaving behind the few things that had belonged to his family, the house, the chess set-None of it would make up for the theft.

Another thing Stiles would have to forgive him for, if he could figure out how. Derek didn't hold out much hope for it, knew forgiveness didn't come easily to Stiles, just like it didn't come easily to him. And there would be so much to forgive, even though it was the best way, the best choice for all of them.

Stiles had endured too much, worked too hard to build a life only to give it up. Derek had no doubt that Stiles would break his oaths to Caroline, make promises and do any number of things if he had the option. People could, and had used a million adjective to describe Stiles, not all of them complimentary or even untrue, but his loyalty was the cornerstone of who he was. It was too total, too complete. Saner, healthier individuals would (perhaps correctly) label it as self destructive. Derek had seen the totality of it, witnessed it in action too many times to think otherwise. Combined with whatever misplaced guilt he felt, he'd choose Derek over Caroline or Scott.

Derek knew he didn't deserve that, hadn't earned that sort of devotion. He'd fooled himself, for awhile. But the blinders had to come off. Not even he was selfish enough to ask that much of Stiles.

Even if he was selfish enough for other things.

He turned away from the table and the envelope, adjusted the duffle and strode through the house. Once he was outside, the cold air seemed to clear his head, make it easier to think. Purpose.

It all had a purpose, even if he didn't.

Quickly locking up, he moved down the steps, resolutely didn't look back. Even when he'd gotten into his truck, he didn't look at the house, didn't think about remodeling it, fixing it up, or how Stiles had come to him looking for-Whatever it was he'd found.

None of it was his anymore.

He pulled out of the driveway, didn't turn on his lights until he hit the main road. The ring pressed into the skin below the hollow of his throat, felt like it was creating a bruise. The thought of Stiles and Cassie walking into the house to find the envelope, to find him gone had him pressing harder on the gas and clenching the steering wheel, fighting the urge to turn the truck around. The metal core of the wheel groaned ominously and he let up on his grip, but not the gas pedal.

He drove with only a vague idea of where he was going, a general direction and the memory of Stiles' quiet but intent declaration. The internet had given him a few starting points, clues for where to look. Not that it really mattered. He had all the time in the world to find it.

* * *

It had been weeks since he'd left Beacon Hills, his body hurting from shifting for the first time in years, nostrils burning from the persistent stench of the sedative he'd inhaled while trying to dose his friend, who had also been completely feral. Arguing _still_ echoed in his ears, the fury he'd held back simmering beneath the surface of his skin at the memory. That place was poison, in a way few places were, and it clung to him, intensified by the news of Derek's choice to leave. Leaving behind Derek, feral and broken, and Stiles, unnaturally still and silent, had been one of the harder decisions he'd ever made. It was a regret, one that ate at him, moreso now than it had before. If he had waited, been there when Derek had come out of it, if he had gotten a chance to talk to Derek, maybe tell him-What?

Miles had no idea if he could have stopped Derek. At the very least, he should have ignored Derek's singular text about 'needing space'. Should have, could have, didn't do.

"Thinking hard?" Payton asked, rummaging around in the kitchen.

Miles nodded even though Payton couldn't see him. "Derek's on the coast, near Bandon." Tracking was an art form he'd perfected back _then_ , and the process hadn't changed since the last time he'd done it. Now he just had to figure out what to do with the information.

"He hasn't left the state. That's encouraging," Payton said, coming in to the living room and sitting down on the couch. Miles rolled his eyes at the tupperware container of cereal. "You don't look satisfied with that."

Miles glared at the ceiling. "Cas said Stiles is in rough shape." Which was probably an understatement. Only an idiot would miss how Stiles and Derek operated, a single unit unto themselves. Even though the status quo had changed, they would probably have continued on that way. It was difficult to imagine one without the other, even though he'd met Derek months before Stiles.

Stiles. Another issue Miles didn't quite know how to deal with. Emissaries had always been at the top of his shit list. Distant advisers who could never understand or empathize with 'creatures'. People meting out judgments when they couldn't comprehend how their 'charges' functioned. Except Stiles, who acted more like a wolf than a human.

"Penny for your thoughts."

"Stiles is a good emissary." They were foreign, unthinkable words. Or had been. If he hadn't been so aware of that fact, Miles would have wondered if he'd been spelled somehow.

"Stiles is a shit emissary," Payton snorted, smiling. "But he's a good man. You thinking about crossing to the dark side? Drinking the kool aid?"

"Maybe."

Payton sat the tupperware on their coffee table and leaned back in the couch, turning serious. Miles hated it when Payton was serious, if only because it was a sign of how bad things were. "It is tempting, isn't it?"

It was, which said something. Years of navigating what little neutral territory there was, carving out a niche for himself and those that chose to remain on their own had made him adverse to ever admitting anything of the sort aloud. It was completely unnatural by the hierarchies standards, being on your own. He'd dealt with Caroline before he'd met Derek, had taken on Martinique and turned his back on his Clan. No protection, no safety. Living as a human. Unnatural. And he'd felt it, that call to belong. Felt it and resisted, because trust was almost impossible.

"He wouldn't be like Billiot," Payton murmured, reading his thoughts.

Which was why it was so damn tempting. Stiles wouldn't pull someone's strings, or abuse his power. He wouldn't turn his back on murder, wouldn't choose the easy way for the sake of it being easy. Stiles was loyal to a fault, something that had been damnably evident in Beacon Hills. He protected his own, regardless of tradition. And god help anyone that fucked with those he considered his own, an instinct Miles could appreciate, especially in an emissary.

Damned if he didn't feel that same protective instinct for Stiles. The kid had to be losing it, and he had no idea how to mitigate the damage, only that he wanted to.

"McCall is coming to visit, he's staying at Stiles' house."

"Probably be a good idea to have back up there. It could be a test run. See how well we integrate."

"We?"

Payton didn't look particularly concerned. "Instinct."

"So the seahorse has instincts now," Miles grumbled good naturedly, brushing the comment off. If Payton didn't seem concerned, he had no need to be. At least he hoped not. Payton flipped him off and reached for his bowl, stopping short and giving him a curious glance.

"You going to tell Stiles you found him?"

Miles chewed on the question, continued to think on it even as Payton started eating again, the cereal crunching loudly in the silence. Given what Cassie had told him and what he'd observed over the years, Stiles was probably the only person that had a right to know where Derek was. But having the right and actually wanting to know were two different things. And for all of that, he didn't know whether or not it would help the situation. Derek had to be volatile, and Stiles equally so. If Stiles could go tearing off after him, god only knew what would happen.

"I'll ask him if he wants me to find him first."

"Sounds like the best plan," Payton agreed, as if there hadn't been any pause at all.

Miles settled deeper into his chair, ignored the phantom ache of his body shifting.

(When Stiles said 'no', he was frustrated and yet irrationally pleased. Stiles was putting what he thought Derek needed above his own obvious wants. It was another hook in his consciousness, another concept that made belonging that much more tempting.)

* * *

"You're not going without me," Issac snapped. Allison was glaring, but at least she was being silent. Unlike Issac, who seemed determined to set him off again.

And that wasn't fair, Scott knew it. Issac wasn't intentionally trying to push his buttons. He was worried about him. But it was an unnecessary worry, a paranoia that no longer made any sense.

"We have an alliance. No one is going to hurt me," Scott repeated for the umpteenth time.

"Sure, now that Derek's an alpha again," Issac sneered. Scott tried to be sympathetic. Derek had been a terrible alpha, especially for Issac. It had taken months for Issac to open up to him about everything that had happened, and years for those fears to fade. But it had been years, and people changed. Derek's change had been just as apparent as Stiles'. Neither of them had been the same people that had left Beacon Hills.

He shuddered at the memory of Derek as a newly risen alpha. His howls had been gut wrenching, the sound of a half mad, mourning beast. Scott knew the instinct, knew Derek had been trying to get to Stiles. Peter had just been in the way. How Issac could have missed it, how he was so completely ignorant to what had happened flew in the face of what they were.

"What happened doesn't affect us, so it's not your problem to worry about." Ultimately it was the best argument he could manage without triggering another psychological landmine, another verbal assault he was growing tired of placating.

"Bullshit," Issac exploded. "They used us!"

"Stop. They didn't use us. They saved our asses."

"And Derek becoming an alpha and Stiles freeing himself from the nemeton were just incidental bonuses," Allison added bitterly, speaking for the first time since he'd announced his intention to go to Portland.

Scott ground his teeth together. "If you can call going feral or being in a coma _bonuses_."

"Why can't you learn from someone else?" Issac pleaded, sounding less and less afraid and more petulant. From what little Scott had gathered, Issac and Allison both had been shut out during the whole fiasco, and Scott could appreciate how much they would hate that. But from what his mother had said, what Jon had told him, they had tried to push the others out. It couldn't remain that way anymore. If anything, Scott had realized how much help they needed. That help had been offered, was still offered. Alliance. It wasn't a foreign concept, but one without strings was. Now more than ever they needed it, especially if John and Stiles' hypothesis was correct, and Peter had been quietly getting rid of potential threats to his plan.

"We don't have ties with any other packs," Scott reminded him, hoping to get through to Allison as well. "We know one other alpha. Who killed his own betas for power, just in case you forgot that part. Caroline has one of the oldest and most respected packs in the country. She can teach me more about being an alpha. Rick might even be able to help me with my tie." And if something came that his pack couldn't handle, he could count on backup.

"But not Allison," Issac snapped.

"I don't want him in my head," Allison swiftly countered. Scott didn't point out that she'd probably decimated any and all chances of receiving help from the Valdyrs the minute she'd suggested taking over Derek's 'containment'. Caroline Valdyr and her Second had both looked ready to tear her apart, and Rick had managed a look of pure disgust and unadulterated fury. Not something he was going to forget any time soon. The ensuing argument over his dismissal of her was also seared into his memory.

"It's not your decision," He finally said, determined to settle the matter.

"Because you're the alpha?" Issac demanded, his voice filled with scorn.

That was it. "Yes, because I'm the alpha."

Issac and Allison both looked thunderstruck, jaws going slack. He'd never pulled rank before, had ignored the voice in his head and his instincts because he'd never wanted to be like Derek. But maybe that had been a mistake. There had to be some sort of middle ground, which was something only Caroline could help him with.

She'd earned Stiles' trust. Stiles had oathed to her. That meant something to Scott, more than he would ever admit to Issac or Allison. He knew neither of them would understand the significance of gaining Stiles' trust, knew just as well that both of them would deride him for placing so much faith in Stiles' instincts.

"So that's it then," Allison muttered. "You're doing this even though you're outvoted."

"It was never up for debate," Scott told them. That, he hoped, told them all they needed to know.

(He slept in his childhood bed that night, like he had every night for almost a month. His mom and John spoke in hushed whispers about taking Lydia up on her offer to stay at the beach house in Ventura. When John asked 'What about Scott?' his mother's lack of an answer made his eyes burn, salt stung.)

* * *

The town was insular, like all small towns seemed to be. His request for the bed and breakfast had been met with a two minute blank stare before the attendant had pointed and mumbled vague directions. But it was closer to what he'd been looking for, what Stiles might have had in mind. He'd driven through part of the forest, the smell of the ocean and the sound of the waves a counterpoint the the wheels of his truck. After Bandon had turned out to be a wash, something about it making him antsy, he'd left for this town, sleepy and set apart.

The bed and breakfast was-It was like something out of a fantasy story. Or a horror novel. Standing two miles outside of the town on it's own, it loomed in the darkness, exactly the sort of house that looked like it had a few ghosts in it. Even in the dark he could see that it desperately needed repainting, the sea wind and salt not doing the exterior any favors. And it was entirely possible the structure was leaning, the turret (or was it a tower?) looking ready to cave in, the windows completely blacked out with newspaper.

"You look terrible," The proprietor said bluntly. It was the same sort of pragmatism all most older women seemed to posses, and reminded him too strongly of his grandmother. But she owned the only B&B in town, the only one for miles. The hotel an hour away felt like a safer, saner option. Maybe he could pay extra for privacy.

"Do you have a room open?"

"It's the off season, of course I do," She grunted. "King or queen?"

"Queen is fine."

He listened to her prattling on about how they didn't get many visitors in winter, about the room and board, meals being covered and the washer and dryer being part of the amenities, but he had to do his laundry himself. He handed her cash when she asked him to pay, enough for a few days. She stared at the bills, obviously curious.

He'd forgotten how people didn't pay with cash anymore. He'd fallen out of the habit in Portland, another sign of how comfortable he'd gotten there, how safe he'd felt. People (hunters, alphas, Stiles) couldn't track cash.

But she accepted it all the same, even if she did hesitate.

"Thank you."

"No problem. Dinner should be done in half an hour."

"I was going to go for a walk."

"In this weather?"

He didn't attempt to explain himself. The owner made another indecipherable sound before turning on her heels and leaving him alone, standing in front of the door to his room. He turned the knob and opened it, peering into the bedroom.

It wasn't like Shaw's, which was strangely disappointing. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but the eggshell white walls and flowery décor weren't it. It was what Stiles called a chintz nightmare. His fingers reached for the ring, twisting it on the chain. Guilt settled in, not a new sensation, although it felt new. The ring had been important, was important, to Stiles. Every day that Derek wore it was another day that Stiles was aware of it's absence.

Sending it back didn't feel like an option though. (Derek deluded himself into thinking that it would be a possibility, soon. It was an almost hourly process.)

He dropped his bag on the floral bedspread and turned on his heel, determined to get out into the open. The bluffs weren't far off, the forest not much farther than that. A few miles at most, if he could trust his sense of smell. The inlets and scattered patches of wooded land were playing havoc with his ability to map an area, the constant breeze coming in off of the sea getting stronger the later it got.

The woman watched him as he left, her gaze boring into his back like a laser. "I lock the doors at nine."

"I'll be back before then," He promised, not even looking at her as he slipped out of the door. She made another sound that turned into quiet mumbling, unimportant words he didn't try to decipher. Once he'd cleared the parking lot he allowed himself to pick up speed, his entire body relaxing into it. It was relieving, to finally allow his body to move, to actually exert itself. Keeping himself in check, within human limits was more and more exhausting by the day. Bandon had been too unsettling, made him too paranoid to even contemplate letting go. Not so now, the scent of salt water and stone drawing him closer, the scent of redwood and spruce sharpening it, almost tantalizing.

His feet pounded the ground in time to the waves that grew louder and louder, the sounds mixing into each easy breath. Derek pulled in one deep lungful after another, glutting himself on the sharp bite of spruce and salt. Almost euphoric, his body kept going, instincts stopping him long after the soil had given way to rock and right before rock gave way to empty air.

White foam crashed and receded around the jagged outline of rocks below, jutting up out of the water. Behind him was a line of trees that was only the beginning of the forest. Mist was already rolling in, a promise of a heavier fog. The moon was waxing, half full.

Derek looked around, knew even without looking for the redwoods that it was _a_ place, at least, that Stiles would have chosen to come to, might have even been the place he'd had in mind. For all that, it still felt-Off. Not like Bandon. Just-Empty. Stiles' request and not his own. An urge he couldn't understand.

(He started running, determined to leave the bluffs behind. Time slipped by, through his hands and past him as he pushed his body. Exertion shifted into exhaustion. By the time he found himself in his own head again, he was missing his shirt and his pants were torn. It was only by luck that he still had his keys. Which was good, because the bed and breakfast was locked up tight for the night.)

* * *

Scott bared the secret he'd been holding close for years, the voices in his head still taunting him for flaunting a 'weakness'. He'd never been more ashamed than now, admitting his darkness to Stiles. His first impulse was to leave, to just walk away.

Except he'd done that before. He and Stiles had been stuck in a holding pattern, constantly walking away from each other. At some point one of them had to give, and it had to be him. Stiles had tried, before. Scott remembered ignoring it for his own wounds, knew it was his turn to expose his vulnerabilities.

Stiles though, didn't recoil, didn't tell him how much he'd fucked up. Instead, he was staring at his hands, his fingers flexing rhythmically. "I used to see your face change. And Allison's, the twins too. Sometimes Chris'."

Scott waited patiently, didn't give in to his first impulse, which was to take his brother's hands and try to leech away the pain. It would be a pointless endeavor anyway, maybe wrong even if he could do it. Stiles had earned the right to his pain, to his anger. Denying that had been another mistake, one in a list Scott wasn't sure would ever end.

"It would be this weird corner of my eye sort of thing, only head on. Like a horror movie. You'd look like Peter or Gerard, Allison would remind me of Kate. It was a waking nightmare. Just-I could never stop seeing it. Sometimes it's wouldn't stop and I didn't know if I was awake or asleep."

Stiles' heartbeat was unsteady, but not in the steady acceleration of a lie. It was the vestiges of panic, of hurt and a mind trying to control the body's natural response to old wounds being opened back up. Scott couldn't stop the curse that filtered out, utterly out of character. Stiles' reactions had made sense even before knowing what his scar had done to him. Now they became clear in a way Scott wished he didn't understand. Stiles hadn't been allowed to forget the past Scott had been determined to ignore. Now that Scott knew, he couldn't help but wonder how Stiles had maintained any semblance of sanity. (The answer loomed, the image too painful to ignore.)

"I dreamed about all of them, every night I slept. Everything that had been done, what you all might still do," Stiles added in a hollow voice.

"I'm sorry I ignored you," Scott whimpered, guilt eating at him. "God, I didn't-Of course I didn't know," He muttered, glaring at his fists, the claws biting into his skin keeping him anchored in the moment. He hadn't known because he'd determinedly ignored Stiles every time he'd tried to explain. That was on him. Just like Cassie had said. "And the-The scars?"

It felt important to know, to understand. He'd been a part of it, and knowing was a consequence, a punishment that he'd earned.

Stiles took a deep, steadying breath that didn't sound steady at all, stopped short in a slight wince of pain. "I didn't want to sleep, so I started abusing my adderall. When it got to the point I was going through my prescription too quickly, I looked up ways to get my adrenaline going. Cutting seemed like the easiest option. When I knew I had to sleep, I would drink to make it a little easier."

Cutting had been the easiest option. Stiles had hurt himself to stay awake, like something out of a Freddie Krueger movie. He'd used his medication like meth, had gotten drunk to get his body to sleep. And he'd dreamed. Scott tried to imagine Stiles from their junior and senior year, could only remember being afraid and angry because of Stiles' bheavior. Stiles withdrawing, fingering the vial of wolfsbane like he played with the rings on his necklace. Stiles digging up Erica and Boyd's graves and calling the police, calling Lydia out and smelling like rubbing alcohol and amphetamines. Stiles so angry, all the time.

And he'd been perfectly justified.

"I'm-I just need a minute," He muttered, feeling like he was made of glass, cracking along a million fine lines he hadn't even been aware of existing. The chair legs screeching along the floor sounded like nails on a chalk board, echoed in the room even as he bolted for the door and opened it, practically flinging himself out of the garage. Too hasty, too careless, he slammed the door behind him, wondered if he'd managed to break it.

He gulped in lungfuls of air, his body jarring unpleasantly as he strode away from the workshop and his brother.

Cutting. Drug abuse. Hallucinations. Nightmares.

God, no wonder Stiles had run. Scott didn't know how Stiles had managed to survive long enough to get to Portland. The summer before had been a peek at the truth, a hint of everything Stiles had endured. And even now, Scott knew that he wasn't grasping the whole of it. How could he? Stiles had been right. He and the pack had ignored everything, striven for the future while Stiles had been forced to constantly relive the past. Even Allison's darkness hadn't been so profound, so isolating.

Scott realized he was keening, low in his throat. The wounded sound echoed into the woods around him before ending, swallowed by a territory that wasn't his.

Stiles had endured, was still enduring. Scott hadn't missed the slight limp, couldn't forget the description of the nemeton's broken tie. Most of all, he couldn't ignore the anguish present in Stiles' scent when he'd explained Derek's absence.

It was his fault. If he had been the right kind of alpha, the right kind of brother, Stiles and Derek wouldn't have been in Beacon Hills. Stiles wouldn't have gotten hurt, Derek wouldn't have killed Peter. Stiles would still have the person he loved, wouldn't be limping around and breathing shallowly.

He had to stop running. Which started with facing Stiles again. He turned around, walked back into the workshop. When Stiles' first words were 'I hated you so fucking much', it took every ounce of willpower he possessed to hold his ground.

It wasn't like he didn't deserve to hear that, too.

* * *

Derek heard the clanging of nails and a hammer and sharp cursing. Mrs. McKenzie (who refused to be referred to by anything else on grounds of expulsion) was on the back porch, fumbling with one of the loose stairs. Derek wondered if his arrival had finally forced her to fix it, and what that meant about her normal guests. (If she had normal guests.)

Five more minutes of cursing and he slipped out of the floral hell he'd been sleeping in, rooting through his bag for a clean pair of socks before tugging them on and forcing his feet into his shoes. By the time he got to the back porch, Mrs. McKenzie was trying to pull a bent nail out of old wood that should probably have been replaced instead of having another hole put in it.

She noticed his presence when he intentionally stepped on another loose board, making it creak and groan. The old woman came up more quickly than he'd thought possible, hammer swinging in a wide arc and barely missing him.

"Would you like some help?" He asked, calm despite the fact that the hammer was still raised between them.

"I can hammer some nails," She replied acidly.

"It's the wrong kind of nail," He observed. Not to mention the entire box smelled of rust.

"Are you a contractor?"

"Carpenter," He hedged, hearing Miles' familiar rant echoing in the back of his mind. _'I'm not a damn carpenter. Wood artisan. I am a wood artisan.'_ "Do you have longer nails?" Preferably not forty years old and rusted through.

Mrs. McKenzie actually looked at a loss before her gaze turned sharp again. "There's a bunch in the old shed. This way." She didn't give him a chance to enter before she was walking down the steps, skipping the loose board in a movement that bespoke an ingrained habit. Derek followed, taking note of the other steps as he stepped on them. The second to last needed to be fixed too.

The shed was a little wooden structure, in dire need of repair. Once inside, he was surprised to see that everything was neat instead of the expected mess of tools. One wall held the normal tools kept around the house for minor handiwork, the other was lined with old gardening tools in surprisingly good shape, the tips showing the pale steel of being recently sharpened.

He poked through the small boxes of nails, smelling the dust of years and the sheen of rust. The two that would work for the steps were full of rusted nails, practically useless.

"Is there a hardware store near here?"

"Back in town," Mrs. McKenzie replied in a clipped voice.

"These are rusted through. They'll bend or snap before holding anything."

Normally taciturn, Mrs. McKenzie turned positively dour. "It can wait."

Derek had a feeling it had waited for years, for whatever reason. He nodded, watching the woman set the box of rusted nails back on the shelf. Taking it as a dismissal, he left the shed and headed for his room. Mrs. McKenzie's cursing started back up behind him, lingering outside even as he jogged up the stairs.

She was nowhere in evidence when he walked back downstairs, nor was she outside when he got into his truck and pulled out of the driveway. Town was only a couple of miles away, not far at all. He'd wandered in a few times, ignored the curious stares of the local people in favor of coffee and diner food.

The hardware store was just off Bright street, an inaptly named street off of the main drag. It was horribly old town, a memory of out of the fifties, maybe. Cleaverville. He parked on the empty street and got out, surveyed his surroundings even as he steeled himself for dealing with yet another new, unknown person.

Strangers still felt dangerous, especially when the man behind the counter, a middle aged type with thinning hair and a wary stare reached under the counter.

Derek didn't ask him where his nails were, too busy trying to shut off the multitude of chemical smells to feign politeness. Instead he followed the signs on the aisles and turned down one. Everything was labeled neatly, following intuitive patterns of size instead of brand. He quickly found what he needed, was halfway to the front counter before spinning on his heel and looking for another aisle.

Two bottles and a pack of steel wool went under his arm before he walked back up front.

"Got a big project?"

Derek nodded.

"You're staying out at McKenzie's, right?"

Another reason he hated small towns. Like Beacon Hills, everyone seemed to be aware of everything, especially strangers.

"She's a bit off, isn't she?" The man asked, sounding amused.

Derek looked up sharply, saw the older man half smiling at the register keys, hen pecking like he barely ever used the keys. Nothing more was said except for the total. Derek paid cash and took his change, shoved the receipt in his jacket pocket and took the bag.

The man's warning stuck in his head, replayed itself over and over as he drove back to the old house. The man had smelled vaguely of fear, but not overly so. The warning felt misplaced, maybe habit instead of actual concern.

Mrs. Mckenzie was moving around in her house, the vacuum loud even over the coastal wind coming in. He ignored it in favor of going back to the shed. Somehow he doubted she'd be thrilled by his presumption. Better to just get it done before she realized it.

Luckily, the shed didn't have a lock, was easy to get into. He dropped the bags on the shelf and found the hammer, took the nails and headed for the back porch.

Mrs. McKenzie found him as he started working on the original stair, the other already done. She left him alone only to come back out with a mug of warm coffee. Steam wafted into the air, filling his nostrils as she sat it down on the porch.

"Thanks."

"No problem," He said, meaning it. It was better than wallowing in the nightmare of a guest room or constantly searching the bluffs and forest. When he'd finished, he drained half the mug before setting it back and going back to the shed to retrieve the bag of supplies and a few of the smaller handtools hanging from the pegboard in the back. He started with the hammer he'd used to secure the boards, slowly clearing the rust away.

At midnight, when she'd fallen asleep, he slipped downstairs and out into the darkness. A storm was rolling in, making the air heavy with ozone and the first taste of rain. Cold hit his skin hard enough to feel like pebbles striking him. The forest only softened it. The chill seeped in, banked the heat that never seemed to quit until he was cold throughout, shivering as needles slid into bone.

He turned back to the bed and breakfast, his body wracked with shivers as the wind cut through him.

Mrs. Mckenzie was waiting in the living room. She took one look at him and shook her head.

"Kitchen, kiddo. There's some fresh coffee."

She didn't ask, and he didn't volunteer the information. What was more, there was no reprimand.

(He was still cold when he went to bed, curling up beneath the covers and throwing his arm out in a habitual motion. There was only the empty matress.)

* * *

"This is amazing," Scott breathed, his eyes closed as he took in the scents and sounds of the forest. Beacon Hills had more than it's fair share of teenaged campers and random poachers, making running there difficult. But he couldn't hear anything human for a mile, at least. Nothing but the natural sounds of the forest in winter.

"It is," Caroline agreed, her voice tinted with pride. It wasn't undeserved. Her territory reached out beyond the forest, but Scott knew that the woodland was the heart of it. Unspoiled. That was the right word for it. "I thought we might both shift and go for a run."

That wasn't at all what he'd been expecting. He'd expected books and paperwork, lessons on treaties and territory claims. All of the random things Stiles had glossed over so naturally back in Beacon Hills. But a run would be nice, especially here, where he wouldn't have to worry about humans seeing him.

His features snapped, cracked and reformed. Caroline watched him carefully, her gaze shrewd.

"That's only a half shift."

Scott nodded.

"Can you make a full shift?"

He recoiled so quickly he thought he'd physically stepped back. It turned out to be his beta features receding, the crack and breaking of bone barely noticed in the fresh wash of shame. "I don't do it."

"Don't, or can't?"

"Don't."

"Why?"

Why was difficult. There were too many reasons to count, the least of which was how much he'd looked like Peter the first time he'd done it. First and only.

"I look like a monster."

Caroline hummed, a sound he was growing used to. "You're clinging too tightly to your human side."

"My human side is the side that keeps me from killing people," Scott muttered defensively.

"Incorrect, though I understand why you'd make the assumption," Caroline told him in a firm voice. "I read Derek's memories. I know what Peter Hale did to you, what he was like. But he was not a typical alpha. Nor was Deucalion or his pack. Your experience with alphas has been a sampling of everything not to be. Don't let it color your perception of yourself."

Scott bit back the urge to yell at her. How was he supposed to let those experiences go when they'd effectively wrecked his life? How could he trust himself when he'd already proven he was utterly incapable as an alpha?

"I'm going to tell you a secret," Caroline began, staring him down. Scott stared back, determinedly not sneering at the utter condescension of the declaration. "Most wolves can attain a complete transformation. What you think of as a full shift isn't. What we are reflects what's inside. At the height of our strength, we can bring that to the surface. A true wolf."

"Really? Gerard said that it was unusual."

"Gerard Argent is an imbecile, even if he is a particularly crafty one," Caroline said, her voice clipped in a hard edge. "Hunter's lore is vastly different from the truth, for good reason. A full shift is rare because what it requires is just as rare. It's a complete and absolute trust in your anchor. It's not holding fast. It's letting go and trusting it to bring you back."

Scott shook his head, not understanding the difference.

"What is your anchor?"

"My pack," Scott said with practiced ease. His pack, for all that it was two people.

"That's dangerous. Normally I advise people against making people their anchors. My daughter did it, Derek did it. You've seen first hand what it can do. People are capricious, our feelings towards our loved ones even more so."

Scott had the sinking feeling she knew that Allison and Issac were still living with Chris, that he still slept separately from them. It wasn't like the alpha hadn't been present for his spectacular (and childish) display of panicked machismo, referring to one of his pack mate's as a hunter instead of a human.

"My suggestion is that you find a new anchor."

As if it was that simple.

"What's yours?"

Caroline seemed to go soft at the edges, the first sign of the person beyond the alpha. "My duty. To my pack, my family, my husband."

He could immediately grasp the difference, though at first glance they seemed the same. It felt like a good anchor, if someone understood what their duty was. He didn't, not really. Not yet.

"I don't know what's right. How I should-" He struggled for words. Be, act, lead? He'd melodramatically considered himself Atlas once, carrying his duty like a burden. But it had been a complete farce, his fumbling nothing more than attempts to pass those responsibilities off to others.

"Being an alpha means being many things," Caroline explained gently. "But most of all, it means making decisions for the good of the pack. Sometimes that will require sacrifices, or will put you at odds with the people you're trying to protect or help. It means setting personal emotions to the side and doing what's right for those in your care."

It sounded miserable, and the words slipped out before he realized he was saying them, drawing a wry, emphatic smile from the older alpha.

"Seeing them safe and flourishing is my reward."

He could understand that, wanted that for his pack and the people he loved.

"Give it time," She added. "All relationships take time to create, to heal."

Scott had the distinct feeling she wasn't just talking about his pack anymore. He nodded, a silent expression of hope.

* * *

Mrs. McKenzie gave him a skeptical once over before coming to some decision.

"Don't burn my house down," She told him in a sharp voice, shouldering a bag that reeked of sage and hawthorn. Derek flinched at the phrase and watched her walk into the foyer. Cold blew into the house before the door slammed shut behind her.

He muttered and oath and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. A witch. Mrs. McKenzie was a witch. He was renting from a witch. Of course he'd picked the witch's house. He added a prayer to it, that she was nothing more than one of the new age spiritualists that had no gift whatsoever.

The moon made it difficult to think, pulling and pushing at him in time with the tides, louder than they'd been before.

Derek pushed himself off of the sofa and followed the trail of sage and hawthorn leading to the door. Surely she wouldn't see him, if only because he would avoid her. And she'd think nothing of him taking a walk. He took them every night, not that he knew what he was looking for anymore.

When he opened the door, the cold was like a wall, slamming into him with the wind coming off of the sea. He stepped outside and closed the door behind him (much more gently than Mrs. McKenzie had) and looked up. The sky was cloudy, overcast with the promise of another storm. The forest a couple of miles off beckoned, the scent stronger than the salt tang of the ocean. Home. It reminded him of home.

What was Stiles doing? Was he at the vé, reconnecting to the land, recreating the bridge he'd destroyed? Or was he still inside, recuperating and protected from the cold?

Derek took off, jumped over the porch railing and bolted towards the forest.

It was a poor substitute for home, the cold sinking deeper into his bones. Even breaking past the tree line like it was a door to some other place, he couldn't help but feel out of place, wrong. The scents were wrong, the taste in his mouth was wrong, the cold was wrong.

Fitfully shed clothing fell to the ground in a careless heap as he focused.

It wasn't the seamless transition he'd grown used to, his body contorting, breaking and reforming into something bigger. Even before looking down at his hands, he knew it wasn't right. He wasn't right.

Eyes blinked open, saw the world in a wash or red. Massive, clawed hands clenched into fists, nails biting into flesh. The sharp metallic wash of copper filled his nostrils, made his jaw ache for something to bite into, rip open.

He'd panic, if he didn't already know the problem. Trust. Letting go and trusting it to bring you back. He'd understood the distinction, still understood it.

The loss seemed like a small sacrifice in the grander scheme of things, though he felt it all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Matthias' references to the Reconstruction are based on the nazi occupation of Norway (specifically Trondheim) during WWII. 
> 
> Miles' history with emissaries will be explored more down the road, no worries. 
> 
> Scott and Stiles' problems aren't over, and Derek is a dumbass. No real surprise there.


End file.
